Forty-Eight Off
by Fixomnia Scribble
Summary: It's their first real weekend as just Jamie n' Eddie. Continues from "Old-Fashioned", filling in the Season 7/8 hiatus ...Sliding this one in just before Season 8 shakes up the plotlines again. We're entering "M" Territory, darlings. Adults living adult lives. Govern yourselves accordingly.
1. Forty-Eight Off

_I want to be the one who makes you laugh out loud_  
 _I want to make you proud_  
 _And you always said you knew what I could be_  
 _So farewell to the old me_  
 _Farewell to the old me_  
 _Farewell to the old me_  
 _My life is working better now_  
 _But always changing anyhow..._

 _-Dar Williams, "Farewell to the Old Me"_

* * *

"You decent?"

She looks up, one hand testing the water. "Who, me?"

"Okay. Here." The bathroom door opens a crack, and Jamie's hand drops a clean shirt over the handle, and withdraws.

"Thanks!" she calls.

 _Damn_ , she sighs, and tugs the shower curtain closed. _Oh, well._

The problem with having a work-week that ends on a Wednesday, she thinks, is that the pub ratio of typical working stiffs to dedicated barflies is all wrong. On a Friday or Saturday, she might have to look out for a spilled drink here and there out on the dance floor, but Wednesday night drinkers occasionally include large, unsteady fellows who fumble their beer right over her shoulder and down her back as they try to plot a course past her table.

Jamie was on his feet in an eyeblink, and their colleagues in blue swarmed up in seconds. Three of the boys appeared all in a row, ready to escort Joergen out the door in a hurry, but she and Jamie quickly settled everyone down.

Joergen, with a solemn, hangdog expression, had apologized eight times and offered to buy her and Jamie both another round, when Jamie swiftly cut in with a counter-offer of a shower and clothes back at his place. He unzipped his hoodie and tossed it to her, and she caught it with barely a pause, as she headed for the bathroom.

"Your boyfriend is a good man," Joergen told her, a little pompously, when she returned, her rinsed-out shirt in a bag their waitress had found. "He is not angry."

"No harm, no foul," Eddie said lightly, snuggling into Jamie's warm hoodie. "It's just an old top." She was deeply aware that it was the first time she hadn't automatically denied Jamie was her boyfriend, out of instinct. She was also aware that several of their off-duty buds had noticed it, too. Bemused at the whole farce, she took Jamie's arm, and hurried them out of the bar.

Which was how their real weekend began. Strolling back to his apartment hand in hand, just like any other couple on a late spring evening. She was still a little too damp and beery to wrap her arm around him, but after a week apart, she needed some part of him to touch, like a static buildup needing to be discharged.

Now she rolls her neck back and forth slowly under the hot spray, finding a lingering crick from Walsh jamming on the brakes in the PC yesterday, while her head was turned. What a week it's been. New partner, even if she and Walsh get on well. Usual insanity in downtown Manhattan to contend with, but no deaths on her watch, at least. Another letter from Dad, wanting to plan for his release next year. Another invite from Mom to come for dinner with her new husband and bring Jamie.

Cutting things short at the bar, she thinks, might have been a blessing in disguise.

Meeting up for drinks at the end of their first week together was supposed to be sort of a quiet but public coming-out among their colleagues, not as partners, but just Jamie n' Eddie. What they really need right now is to be back in each other's space. It's a simple thing to get a close read on each other from two feet away in the private bubble of their cruiser all day. But when you can communicate respect and amusement and attraction and total confidence on a dozen different levels while going toe-to-toe verbally over judgement calls made during hypothetical and actual cases, a few text messages between callouts do not come close.

They haven't had any time to hang out together since last week, the big anticlimactic split of '17, in which she and Kara Walsh joined forces as the badassiest-and-sassiest new partnership in the One-Two, and Jamie became T.O. for the new kid Theo Sipowicz.

That had been the easy part. Mollified by fresh baked _pizelles_ and a silly memo asking for his blessing, along with a request for reassignment, Sergeant Renzulli had merely looked from one to the other, blown out a breath, and asked to be invited to the wedding. Rather than find them new postings across town from each other, as he'd threatened, he'd given her a rough hug and banged Jamie on the back with a finger-wagged warning to treat her right, which was pretty funny if you actually _knew_ the pair of them.

The rest of the house shrugged, still convinced they had been an item for years. They're old news.

"Wait. Did Mister Family get you in the family way?" Walsh had demanded, eyeing her stomach sternly in the locker room. "That why you come clean all of a sudden?"

"Dude, no. I swear to you, we haven't even gone there yet."

"Uh huh," Walsh nodded slowly. "Well, we're gonna have plenty of time for me to get all the facts outta you."

In fact, they haven't had any chance to get pregnant even if they were trying to. Which they're not. At least, not yet. She's thirty-two and there is some muffled ticking going on, but they have a ways to go yet. Mostly on her side.

Jamie's already spent nearly a year being engaged, and she's pretty sure he was looking forward to fatherhood as soon as it happened. She wants to talk to him more about that, and if recasting himself as a beat cop after chasing a high-flying legal career has changed him in ways he never expected, too. So many things she'd wanted to know, but shied away from asking. They were already hip-deep in pair-bonding when they'd pulled back last year, and it would only have been more painful, at the time, to look down paths they had decided not to travel together.

There's a short tap on the door that brings her back to herself. "Throwing your shirt in the wash with my stuff," he calls. "Take your time."

"Thanks again."

It's one thing to finally admit, in words and in wordless embraces, the deeply-rooted love that's kept them in each other's close orbit for years, and to know they've finally made the decision to prioritize each other over the job. It's another to find the time and energy for each other, and to figure out what this new phase of their relationship is supposed to look like.

Tonight it's finally just them. And she's naked and wet in Jamie's shower, and he, being Jamie, is _doing the laundry_ and giving her some space, because they could both use a little downtime before what will certainly be an intense couple of days. She'd changed into a newly-acquired set of pale blue lacy underthings after work with high hopes, but she hadn't pictured hand-washing her bra and hanging it over his shower rail to air.

Hey, he might as well get used to it. Cop home life. It's weirdly non-suffocating.

She's always been a bit of a chameleon, an easy thing for a young, cute rich girl to be while studying to go into business with her equally chameleon-like, charismatic dad. She used to shy away from too many serious dates or getting in to too deep with any of her social circles. She had a different wardrobe for each cluster of friends, each set of hangouts. Dating a diverse swathe of guys meant that she could keep reinventing herself, keep moving, zig-zagging when she felt like it, with little risk of running into the same set.

Reintegrating her entire identity within the NYPD was so much more than a career move, or even a chance to redeem her family in some measure. The job and the life are tough enough to get her back up against and fight with every ounce of her strength, and re-make herself over. And if scrappy, trust-shaken, angry Eddie still pops her head up on occasion, there's generally an identifiable trigger these days, even if she goes off like a timed detonator charge at times. She thought she'd feel trapped if she was made to stay in one place. But between the forged-tight bonds of the NYPD and Jamie's constant presence in her life, she feels more at home than she has since before the family crash.

She's definitely not rich now, and she's not terribly young anymore, either. After four years on the job, the cute, blue-eyed effervescent kid has evolved into something far more satisfying: a springy spine and powerful limbs wrapped in mature curves, and a deeper-etched beauty, like her mother's, that needs nobody's approval anymore. It took her quite some time to make the shift from pride in her new physical presence to a state of frustrated, helpless fury that she apparently out-manned all the men she was interested in, to finally turning around and hearing what Jamie had been implicitly and explicitly telling her every day.

 _"You don't need to make apologies for who you are, or what you do for a living."_

 _…yes, and he doesn't need to apologize for the look on his face when she plants the heels of her 5.11 boots and hauls up her command voice_ , she thinks to herself, grinning. It's true. He likes her strong and he likes her soft and silly. And everything in between.

She could, she thinks, keep NYPD-brand Eddie around for good. And apparently Jamie thinks he might, too. Their snakes-and-ladders relationship has been the longest of her life to date, and he's seen so many of her characters that she might as well just hang them up now.

Except, of course, the ones he likes. She knows the ones he likes. Boy Scouts do grow up.

She shuts off the shower. Stepping out, she wraps herself in a towel, and collects the shirt he's left. It's from his Harvard student days, flannel with a small green and blue plaid print, a little smaller than he usually wears now since bulking up on the job. She dries off and slips into it, rolling up the sleeves four times each. It's long enough to cover her to the thigh, and man alive, she's tempted to sashay out like that, but she has no idea where they're at tonight. The ridiculously slow burn that wants to take them over could end up burning them, or lighting the way forward, and it all remains to be seen. What she does know is that Jamie is her best friend, whatever else they're moving towards. So it's back on with her jeans and underwear, which luckily escaped the beery deluge.

She wanders out of the bathroom with the towel around her shoulders, to find him sprawled on his old leather couch with a college basketball game on mute. He's not really paying attention to it, but it's keeping him anchored in the present instead of lost in his head, which she appreciates, because nobody can disappear behind a blank fortress wall between one moment and the next like Jamie.

But not tonight. He looks up and flicks a warm gaze at her, clean and rosy in his shirt. He clicks off the TV and holds out a hand to her, letting one leg drop to the floor so she can sit with her back against his chest. She weaves her fingers through his, feeling that _zing!_ of contact, and sort of slides into him on the couch. For once, it's all unrushed and wordless and just _good_.

She starts rubbing her hair dry, and is surprised when he takes over. She leans into him and purrs. Nobody has done that for her since she was tiny. She's come to realize how often she and Jamie used to touch each other, or move around deep within in each other's space during shifts, since she and Walsh don't tend to. More to the point, she's the one who touches Jamie all the time, and apparently he's figured out that it's because _she_ needs to touch and be touched. It's something he can do for her, despite his own natural reserve, and she loves him and wants him all the more for it.

He slows down, and she starts combing out her damp hair with her fingers. Jamie notices her tense up when she comes close to the sore spot in her neck. She shows him, rolling her head to the side and pointing out the muscle. And then his hand slides over it and rests there, warming her, getting her used to the feel of him there before he starts to work at it, slowly and in time with her breathing. She feels her eyelids growing heavy, but it's too good to miss. He's focussed entirely on her now, both of his strong hands reaching into muscles she didn't even know were sore, and she groans in painful delight.

Long minutes later, she seems to come back to herself, flopped against him limply. He's really just stroking the skin of her neck and over her shoulders now, as far under the collar of his shirt as he can reach. Almost without thought she slides a lazy hand up and plucks another button open, and if the next one happens to come undone by itself, well, it hardly matters. Jamie sighs against her ear. One arm comes around her waist. For a little while he holds her, the pads of his fingers stroking the soft skin of her chest, just under the open front of his shirt, silence and slow breaths in a hypnotic rhythm.

 _Oh, God, that's good._ She moves to roll over and kiss him, but he gives a low chuckle and wraps a leg over hers. It isn't an invitation to wrestle. He's enjoying this unhurried exploration as much as she is, apparently, and has some ideas in mind. Which is fine with her. She's highly curious to see where he goes with this. She feels him wriggle around and he lets go of her for a moment, before he drops his t-shirt to the floor and wraps her in his arms again. _Oh. Yes._ That's even better. He's worked up some heat, massaging her shoulders, and he's warm and solid behind her.

The thought of shirtless Jamie so near is doing things to her head. They both watch as with slow fingertips he traces down over the sensitive curve of the top of her breast, dipping across, and over the other. She drags in a breath as a deep pulse of hunger radiates low down, and her spine rises up in a slow wave, guiding his fingers to slip down into the valley between. His quiet hum vibrates in her ear as he reads her skin, and strokes the path of her cleavage up to her collar bone.

"Jesus, Eddie," he breathes, all gravelly. "How long you been wanting me to touch you there?"

She shakes her head slowly. It's been so long she can't even remember. His touch is soothing an ache that had been surging under her skin for years, and setting off thready little sparks in its wake.

Well. It's no wonder that one or the other of them would quickly move to fill every silence with words and banter, if this is what happens when they finally shut up and slow down.

She considers his question again as her mind re-engages, and smiles. "Yeah, I do know. I caught you _not-looking_ , a few months right after we partnered up." His forehead drops against her neck and he huffs ruefully, and she goes on: "So unprofessional, Reagan, _not-checking-out_ your partner like that."

"Well, I didn't think you'd want me to look. Much."

She decides she'll give him a bonus point for that. She likes showing off her assets, but she isn't averse to using the old girls as a test of male respect, either. His strenuous efforts at maintaining his eye-line above her shoulders were as charming as the few times she'd caught him sliding a glance past her bust when it wasn't strapped down under a duty blouse and vest. Just, you know, on the way to looking at something else. She can admit she's filed away his fleeting appreciation to hold to her ego-bruises on a lousy day, now and then, though she's never actively sought to _distract_ him.

Well, except for the strappy little black main-course she'd worn to his friend's wedding, even if they were determined to keep their hands off each other at the time…and the sparkly vintage number with the sharp plunge that she'd found to wear to the jazz club. That dress actually had him gazing speechlessly for a good five seconds.

"Maybe I sort of wanted you to look."

The feel of him chuckling against her back is like coming home.

"Okay, I totally wanted you to look."

"Well," he tells her, his breath tickling against her earlobe and making her squirm slowly in pleasure, "I'm definitely looking now."

"Find anything good?"

"So much good," he murmurs, in a voice she's never heard him use. He nuzzles into her shoulder, and strokes the soft skin above and between her breasts, up and down. He seems to be coasting somewhere between arousal and reverence. She's a bit high on the combination herself, her eyes drifting shut again, until she feels his breath catch and he hums interestedly. She opens her eyes and glances down. Under his shirt, her nipples are peaking. It's a nice enough view for her; she imagines how it must be for him.

Then she feels his soft lips against her neck, and his fingers slide open another button, and another, and the last, and he tugs the sides of the shirt apart to see. She feels very exposed under this close focus of his, and her body starts to shift again of its own accord under his touch, sharp darts of pleasure running down and down, as his ring finger follows the line her shadowy areola makes, fascinated. His fingers move to trace the outer curve of one breast, slide underneath over her ribs, and then he's cradling it in in his hand, a contented sigh in his throat. His thumb strokes briefly over her tight pink nipple, once, twice, and her harsh exhale escapes into to the quiet air as she shivers in his arms, but he doesn't take her any farther that that, because he's Jamie, and he has more finding out to do. He's busy mapping the shape and soft fall of her breasts, how she sighs and how her body isn't sure whether to twist away or seek out the intensity of it when he strokes her sides and brushes kisses over her shoulders.

Huh. Maybe this is what is meant by people who are turned on by learning. If that's true, sign her up.

This time he lets her up when she rolls over and sits on her heels. Looking him straight in the eyes, she slips his shirt down her arms, reaches up and drapes it over the back of the couch, and settles herself back down against him, skin to skin, _finally_. His eyes have gone a spectacular shade of dark and soft, and the feel of his heatbeat skittering like mad under her palms gives her a sweet, sharp pang that's almost like crying.

She stretches up and murmurs, "I really do love you, Jamie." before she nudges his lips with hers. Her sensitized breasts brush against him as she does, and she lets out an actual gasp as his hand shoots up to burrow into her hair. In his rough exhale and hard, intense kiss she tastes how long he's needed her, what it's cost him to have her so close by. His restless fingers over her skin, his mouth moving down along her neck, are sending shockwaves of pleasure through her, and the craving becomes a storm of hunger about to break. He whispers, low and hot, " _I love you. I love you._ " and blindly seeks her mouth again, his tongue sweeping inside _right there like that_ and ohh, she's never going to get used to that, the feel of Jamie Reagan letting go.

She strokes the muscles and planes of his chest, getting swept away in the feeling of his body moving with hers, responding to her every touch. He's more vocal than she thought, and his breathless quiet sounds are driving her out of her mind. He pulls back a fraction of an inch to get a breath of air and the dryer buzzes in the next room, and they both nearly jump out of their skin. With a shaky laugh she props herself up with one hand on his chest, and looks down at him, both of them rumpled and panting.

"Guess the laundry's done," he says, with a quick huff of laughter. "Remind me to disable that thing."

She raises an amused eyebrow from behind the curtain of her messy hair and draws in a mind-clearing inhale. He presses his hand over hers, his kiss-swollen lips wet and smirky, his eyes feasting on her. She can't help but admire his chest some more and drop an airy drift of kisses along his pectoral ridge. He lets out a sigh at the swish of her hair over his skin. Then she sits up properly, picks up his shirt and covers herself more or less, and peers over at him. "I am not complaining in the least," she tells him, palming a line down to the scritch of hair over his navel. "I love this. I love you. And I want more. But real talk, Reagan: I'd kinda like to stretch out, you know, and we got totally sidetracked from dinner. You're gonna need to feed me. Oh! Doesn't Sal have two-for-one souvlaki tonight?"

He rolls his eyes and palms his forehead, sending a laugh up to the ceiling that she feels start way down in his belly, and just like that, they've locked onto their old rhythm again.

How silly she was to think they wouldn't be partners anymore. They've never been more firmly partnered. It matters little what they choose to call each other or their relationship. They may have been placed together by the hand of Fate or the whim of their supervisors, but what took root there needed to be transplanted out in the world so it could deepen and grow. Now they have that space, now that the choices are all up to them, she knows with a bone-deep certainty: neither of them wants to be anywhere else. Whatever else they may be – and she's pretty sure it's just a matter of sorting out timing and priorities – they are partners first and foremost.

"Not gonna christen the couch tonight?" he grins up at her. Oh, he's done some solitary thinking here, she thinks, on those nights when that mind of his won't shut off. Not that wild can't-wait couch sex in Jamie Reagan's lap hadn't featured in some of her more intense fantasies, but the couch will still be there tomorrow and her neck deserves a pillow.

"Reagan," she prods his chest, and somehow her hand ends up smoothing over his shoulder again as she leans down for another kiss. "Ugh. Food. You're such a distraction." She spells it out for him: "We are not leaving this apartment for two days. We're going to require sustenance."

His eyes brighten and the elusive dimple makes an appearance. Ah. Now he gets it.

He takes her hand and slides his fingers through hers. It seems to be their favourite new alternative to randomly body-checking each other.

"Meal break, partner," he says.

* * *

Notes:

A/N 1: Am I mean? Gosh.

A/N 2: Yes, _that_ Theo Sipowicz.


	2. Rainy Day Lists and Souvlaki

"Please, please let nothing happen while we're out," Eddie says fervently, as they emerge onto the stoop of his apartment block.

Jamie pulls the door closed behind them and adds his own brief prayer. _Of all the nights for the bodega across the street from the restaurant to be held up, or some guys to start a fight outside, please don't let this be it._ All he wants to do is get a nice late dinner with his dangerously cute girlfriend, grab some weekend groceries and get them home and undressed again, as soon as possible. But the fact remains that they're cops, and they'd sooner stop breathing than ignore a critical situation.

 _But not tonight. Please, God, not tonight._

She slips her hand around the crook of his arm as they walk, and he can feel his spine straighten and a subtle strut enter his stride. It feels so damn good, being at ease touching Eddie in public. It's amazing how much they used to compensate for needing to touch each other. Friendly whacks, grabbing a shoulder or patting each other on the back. Playing silly games of keep-away or jostling each other when they thought nobody was looking, like little kids in the schoolyard.

They've never sparred at the gym together, though, as many partners do for practice and to get to know each other's timing. He can only imagine how _that_ would have ended up. It was usually after an Ireland-versus-Eastern-Bloc shouting match in the private world of their cruiser, after a miserable shift or a bad case, that they came closest to dragging one other home to work it off. Frustration release chased by a need for comfort was a powerful hormonal cocktail.

Just as well they didn't, but damn, hot-and-bothered Eddie with that flush in her cheeks and the glint in her eye is one of his favourite things. He appreciates she fights hard and clean, even if it takes her some time to regulate herself back down again. He imagines she makes love the same way, holding nothing back till she's good and done. He already knows how strong she is, how her body moves. The contrast between the decisive, economical movements demanded by officer presence and twenty odd pounds of uniform gear, and the slightly balletic gestures she uses in off-duty mode. How her eyes and her breathing change in different moods.

It's just what his mind does, capturing and cataloging things. Not that he's complaining. And, as of recently, he's not pining, either. Two weeks of teasing, talking, growing closer than ever before, all leading up to this short break they get to share. He's still spinning out a lingering buzz from the kissing and touching earlier, replaying her sweet, generous responses over in his head.

It feels a little like a honeymoon, but he's not going to say that out loud just yet. He leans down and kisses the crown of her head.

"Happy, Ed?" he asks.

She looks up and gives him that smile, the new one that sends warm ripples running through him. "Happy," she says softly. "You?"

"Very much."

"So," she says, a couple of paces later, "That interesting conversation we started the other night."

"The one about what we did and didn't like?"

"Yes, Jamie, that one," she says patiently.

"Mm hmm?"

 _Who says talking over boundaries and first-times together takes the fun out of it_? he thinks.

It's been more like being handed a menu and wine list with expert recommendations, after years of looking in the window. There were many things they already knew about each other, from such a long friendship: he knew she was a dedicated convert to IUD life and generally had only one period or so in a year, as she'd hoped for, with her schedule. He knew she was utterly fastidious about condoms anyway, just in case any of her hopeful dates hadn't been. She knew he wasn't exactly a monk, but didn't enjoy casual hooking up.

(She'd laughed gently at him for his concern for hurting anyone's feelings, pointing out that he sort of wore a neon "Not Into One Night Stands" sign over his head. _He_ was one that _girls_ feared hurting.)

He knew she'd had a couple of not-quite-serious but more-than-college-fling girlfriends over the years, which he really hoped to hear more about sometime. Same-sex dabbling seemed to be just another step of self-discovery in the circles she'd grown up in, unlike his family and church, and he was both curious, and, admittedly, intrigued. She knew his experiences had been decidedly vanilla compared to hers, but that was mostly due to exposure and opportunity - and time, really. He and Syd had both been too busy to venture out much, and hadn't felt the need. He really didn't know how he'd react to some of the things she'd done, but he wasn't put off hearing about and trying some of them.

He already knew she liked a bit of an afterglow snuggle but was a furnace to sleep beside, which he'd quietly filed under Useful Information several years ago.

It's good to know for certain that they've independently ended up on the same page about many things they'd come to want in a relationship. Knowing that, at long last, gave them the final push to jump in with both feet. And somehow they'd started a list, "the Rainy-Day list", as Eddie called it, of things they both knew they could both be sure the other liked or wanted to play around with in bed. He could only hope for a long, wet winter, because the list was getting pretty long, and they couldn't count on many days off together anymore. Four years of fantasies colliding with the possibility of fulfillment at any time was…pretty fucking awesome.

"I thought of something else," she says, looking up at him. She's got her backup glasses on, having had her contacts in all day, and she looks irresistibly kissable. So he bends down and kisses her, just because he can.

"Did you now."

"I like it when you talk to me."

"Well. That's good, considering we talk for hours every day."

She squeezes his arm, hard, and growls at him, "You know what I mean."

"I think I do, but isn't the whole point of this interesting conversation not to assume?"

"Fine." She looks down at their feet, walking in lockstep like they're back in marching formation, and then back up at him. "I don't mean like talking dirty, not all the time. I like knowing where your head's at when we're being intimate. It feels like – it feels like you're letting me in. I know that's sometimes hard for you."

"It is," he agrees. "I'm glad."

"Not just words. I like the sounds you make," she tells him, or rather, tells his shoulder, as he slips his arm around her waist to pull her a little closer, if at all possible.

"That's, um, mutual," he confesses.

In fact, he's tipped himself over into an explosive, messy orgasm more than once just imagining her voice in his ear, his name, her breathless gasps of pleasure growing deeper, richer.

"Re-eally," she draws out the word, slewing her eyes at him at his tone. "Apparently that's very much mutual."

He coughs and focuses on the present.

"Now you," Eddie is saying.

"Now me?" he muses, as they reach the next curb and wait for a safe crossing. "Oh, I got one you'll like."

"Uh huh…"

"I want you to – " he murmurs just over her ear, letting the words fall like rain. "I want you to hold me down sometimes. Just you, I mean. I know you're strong. I wanna feel it."

Her breathing kicks up little and she pretends to look straight ahead, though he can tell he's guiding her steps. "Me being strong does it for you, huh?"

"In so many ways."

"So you weren't just trying to make me feel better about – oh, how did you put it – _kicking ass_?"

He chuckles, remembering. "God, I was such a dork. But yeah, I meant it. And to be fair, I was being honest. Some guys do get turned on by female cops on the job, not just me. What I couldn't tell you was how much I love watching _you_ get into it, especially with those guys who have no idea what kind of trouble they're in when you go after them. You just flip their world around. And I hope they remember you if they ever think of putting a hand on any girl who doesn't want them to."

She's openly laughing now. "Good to know. And I have a confession to make." She looks up and stage-whispers: "I kept that shirt. I still have it."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. I wear it for pyjamas sometimes. I will admit," she raises a hand in a penitential gesture, "I will admit I stuffed it in my locker and tried to forget the whole thing happened for a while. But I took it home eventually. And it made me feel better."

He's genuinely floored. "Well. I'm glad. I thought it might come off a bit creepy, afterwards. Or middle-schoolish."

"No," she says, thoughtfully. After a moment she continues. "The thing is, you weren't telling me anything I didn't know. I'm a cop, and a good one, and I want to keep on being one. I shouldn't have wasted a single moment on anyone that couldn't appreciate that. But that's still a very small pool of men, even in these enlightened times, so to speak - and it kept on bringing me back to you. I couldn't admit that it really was _you_ I wanted to see me that way. I wanted to make _you_ proud of me. And that really messed me up. Especially since we'd just come so close..."

She sounds like she's reliving that whole awful month of May, just four months ago, when they finally admitted to having feelings for each other, and tried to back away for the good of the job.

"Eddie, Eddie…" he stops walking, and pulls her into his arms. "I'm proud of you every day. And I would tell you exactly how much you being a seriously kick-ass cop turns me on, except not here outside the restaurant."

She reaches up and kisses him quickly, a little misty-eyed.

They've arrived at Sal's, a frequent choice of theirs for a late-night Greek dinner or takeout, just a couple of blocks from his apartment. He's about to grab the heavy barred glass door for her, but she ducks under his arm and pushes it open first. He rolls his eyes and smiles. Some things never change.

"Ah! It's you two. Souvlaki special tonight," Elina greets them. "You want menus?"

"No need, thanks," Jamie says. "Usual for both of us. Red wine?"

"Red's good," Eddie confirms, as they head for their usual booth along the back, where they can talk without being overheard too much, and neither has to sit with their back to the door or window. Eddie's turned quiet, chewing over the latest installment of their conversation. He lets her think in peace and merely reaches across the table to take her hand, keeping her from drifting too far.

There aren't any other cops in Sal's diner tonight. Sal's wife Elina, who serves the tables along with their daughter Chloe, has had a bad time with her knee today, and there's another counterfeit twenty dollar bill tacked to the wall behind the cash register. There is one customer two seats down the window that he recognizes as part of the neighbourhood, and another who he thinks eats here on his way home to somewhere else. He doesn't know the other three young women sharing a table.

He spots these things in less than a minute after they tinkle their way through the door and wave to Sal, keeping an eye on the place through the pass-window from the kitchen.

He's had The Job trained into him all his life, long before the Academy, since before he can remember, so that by now, he's only he's peripherally aware of his own hypervigilance. His brain notices things and sorts them without bothering him with the incidentals, like having a brilliantly attuned executive assistant in the outer office.

He suspects that growing up with Dad and Pop is how he and Erin learned to stretch out an instant into what feels like slow minutes of observational time, and that growing up with Mom, the great manager, honed their ability to parse the important from the urgent, like a game. It's that cold clarity they can muster, the ability to let their hindbrains sort out the chaff, that got them both their scholarships to college, and saw them through law school and beyond.

It's also why none of their relationships have ever worked out.

Sydney always felt jealous of the part of his brain that never shut down. She thought he was filtering his honest thoughts, or trying to compete the way they used to in class. He'd tried to explain it to her as a result of his being raised within The Job, but he knew she hadn't understood. Or hadn't wanted to. She wanted more of his full attention, but she might have come to reconcile with that, having a similarly tireless mind. The final straw was him joining The Job, even if it took them a year to actually end things. Sydney just wasn't meant to be a cop spouse.

 _Eddie, now_ , he thinks. Eddie gets The Job. Not all cops do: for some, it's an honest day's work that they leave at the office after patrol. Not for Eddie. After four years, Eddie's still a crusader, still fresh out of the gate most tours, looking for a chance to throw on her invisible cape, fight crime and win back her family's banner.

Jamie loves that about her. She's still idealistic but resilient as hell, for all she'd had some rough armor patches to sand down in the first few years he'd known her. And though she gets up in his face, it's because she trusts him. She gets him and wants to push him to be better, and to call her out when she needs it. She knows when to leave him alone with his thoughts, but if he disappears too long, she'll come knocking on the doors in his head till she finds the one he's stuck behind.

It's telling that sometimes his mind feels calm at the end of a tour, now, when he and Eddie have saved a life, or stopped something bad from happening. Not so surprising, then, that it's at the end of those shifts that they found themselves lingering late after drinks, not wanting to sever that connection. Of all the times he'd been on the verge of trying to say something definitive about his feelings for her, it was usually in that easy quiet after a good, satisfying shift.

Elina brings their wine and a basket of thick, hot buttered pita bread, placing them neatly on the green Formica tabletop, and he lets go of Eddie's hand. Elina notices this and does a rapid double take, clearly deciding she's seen nothing and won't tell. She knows they work together and that cops aren't supposed to date their partners, even though some do. He and Eddie share a fond knowing grin, deciding between them to tell her later on.

For now, he just sits back and enjoys the view. Eddie has her hair brushed back in a loose ponytail. With her bookish glasses, her face scrubbed free of makeup, and his old plaid shirt open over her own long-sleeved blue tee, she's set a new standard on the sight he'd love to come home to at the end of a shift. She's still pretty turned on herself. Her eyes look as excited and playful as they did the first night they met.

 _This is what was missing from all those after-tour drinks_ , he thinks. These moments of unguarded, open intimacy and sharing their essential selves, below all the banter and plausible deniability.

All of which is why, when Eddie pauses after a sip of wine to ask him what he's thinking about, smiling at her like that, he decides to tell her the truth.

"I'm thinking that I am really, really grateful for you. And I already know you've got a super cute matching set on underneath," he replies in a undertone, so blithely that it takes a second for her mouth to drop open and the flush to rise, "and I already know you're actually a brunette. So I can't help imagining…"

He mirrors her sip of wine, eyeing her up and down slowly, and sits back with a smile that isn't even a little bit innocent. This isn't the friendly, earthy banter they used to use to keep each other at arm's length. This is erasing the old line as they go.

The pretty lace bra in a dusty shade of pale blue he saw hanging over his shower rail was a nice revelation. He's looking forward to seeing the other half of the set. And what's underneath. And he can wait just a little while longer. It's so delicious, especially knowing now what listening to his words does for her.

She lifts her napkin and dabs her lips to hide a shaky inhale. Her eyes lift to his and she's smiling from a place deep down. "Been paying attention, haven't you?" she manages.

"Haven't you?" he counters.

"Oh, you have no idea."

From the look in her eyes over her wineglass, he guesses she's right about that. The rush of hunger he's been fighting down since they left his apartment keeps coming back in waves, and he wants to taste the wine on her lips and kiss her breathless. Feel that warm silky skin under his hand again.

He wonders if they should have just ordered in, but decides that this is way more fun.

"Well, I mean, you've seen almost all there is of me, so I'm operating at a disadvantage," he says. "Gotta make up the difference with a mental leap or two."

"You did always knock first," she allows, with a nod. "And yes, now that you mention it, I have seen almost all of you."

" _Now that I_ …oh, like you weren't trying to sneak a peek."

"Like you minded."

He really hadn't, much. "You could've just asked nicely," he says, wrapping his fingers primly around his glass.

"Oh, like this afternoon? You had me up against the window sill, Reagan. I don't recall you gave me time to say much of anything."

"That was pretty hot," he murmurs. "How far did you think we'd go?"

She blinks. "You know, for a minute there I actually wasn't sure." She looks down and takes another sip of wine, remembering. "Funny, I never used to have a thing for discovery thrills."

"Didn't you ever?" he asks, thinking of a few rarely-visited corridors in the library stacks at Harvard. "I did."

"Oooh, and soil your reputation?"

Elina appears beside their table just then with a tray of steaming plates. "All right, you two, who's having the lamb? Or you sharing?"

"Oh, we'll share. But I'll start with the lamb," Eddie says, and Elina slides her plate in front of her.

"Hey, Elina, we got some news," Jamie says, taking the plate of chicken souvlaki from her. "Eddie and I aren't partners on the job anymore."

Elina looks confused and troubled for a moment, and hooks a thumb in the waistband of her apron as she regards him. Then her dark eyes brighten. "Ah! You're getting married?"

"Ma!" chides Chloe, from the next aisle. "Not everything's a wedding, okay?"

Eddie snickers at the shade of red he feels himself turning. That damn Irish complexion always betrays him. "Oh, hey," he says, holding up his hands. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, but, uh, not yet."

"Well," Elina says, patting him on the shoulder, "Why waste time?" She gives Eddie a meaningful glance over her glasses. "But you're together now, my little ones, yes?"

"We are," Eddie replies happily. Elina give his shoulder a final squeeze, smiling broadly, and then pats Eddie on the arm as she departs.

There's a short silence as they each pass over one of their souvlaki skewers. Eddie transfers half her feta onto Jamie's salad and then snags his olives with her fingers, and mutters, "Did you catch that look?"

"I did."

"It's what happens when you're a woman and not in your twenties anymore," she says, removing an olive pit to her side plate.

"Or a single guy, like, ever, and you're supposed to need someone to take care of you."

"Oh, fuck that, you're a better housekeeper and cook than me."

"Changed the sheets and everything, just this morning."

Actually, his bedroom looks nicer than it ever has. It's tidy and swept, with brand new or freshly-washed linen everything, a few mason jar candles on the dresser and the windowsill, and a basket on the nightstand with Ghirardelli chocolate in milk and 60% dark with chili, Walker's shortbread cookies, a bottle of their favourite red wine and a couple of glasses, and vanilla bean-scented massage lotion.

As Eddie noted – he's been paying attention.

"You see?" she points her fork at him, "Thank you."

"For supporting your point, or changing the sheets?"

"Take your pick," she says, a warm gleam deep in her eyes. "Eat up, Reagan. We got somewhere to be."


	3. Dessert

Dessert.

"Half a block," he counts down.

"No screams, no gunshots, no – "

They both freeze and listen to the aftermath of a car horn blaring a block away, and an exchange of ripe curses, but then there is only the sound of late-night city traffic, snatches of music, and a peal of shared laughter from someone's open window.

" _Run_." he tells her. Grabbing his hand, she does, pelting down the last few feet to his building and up the front steps.

"Made it!" she cries as he lets them in. "No public disturbances, no excuse-me-Officers. How's the food?"

"Survived intact," he says, examining the two carrier bags of leftover souvlaki and weekend basics from the bodega. "It figures that would be your first concern."

"Second," she insists, "I had to make sure your ass made it safely home down the mean streets around here."

She is, in fact, packing her smaller backup Sig Sauer, because no matter what, it'll either be in her purse or ankle holster before she goes out the door. Right now it's nestled comfortably on the outside of her right ankle, under her bootcut jeans. Her badge is clipped to her belt, like Jamie's. He's wearing his Glock 17 regular service weapon in his off-duty holster, snug against the small of his back. Date night or not, "off duty" is merely an administrative term.

"Because my ass is carrying the food," he points out.

"Your ass doesn't carry so much as a single French fry, unlike mine, which demands hours of gym time just to – _oh_!"

He's swatted her backside with the back of his hand, shooing her up the stairs. "Your ass is a thing of beauty. Keep it moving."

Giggling, a little giddy, she lets him chase her. They're both well over the regulation fitness standards, but a surging excitement shortens her breath anyway. She reaches the door of his apartment first and tags it, with a triumphant crow.

She turns to find him right there behind her, his body crowding into her. His eyes are lit up and his gaze focused only on her, in the way he does that's always felt a little like sharing personal space, from the very first day.

"Hey," she says softly, sliding a hand up to the middle of his stomach. She tilts her head to one side and purrs, "C'n I come in?"

He gives a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes in self-mocking memory as he leans into her touch, one hand on the door over her shoulder.

"Do you have _any_ idea…" he murmurs, "Any idea at all what a hellish night that was? I couldn't even think straight. I was just spinning in circles. Did you know I went out again later, all the way across town to find you, and I couldn't even let myself walk in the door?"

She hadn't known, but she'd sort of guessed it, later on. She hadn't wanted to believe it. It made her heart hurt for him, almost as much as his absence had hurt her at the time.

"Ancient history," she says softly, tapping her fingertips against his sternum in emphasis. "This is your door, Reagan. Let yourself do whatever you want."

She lets gravity pull her hand down. She feels his stomach tighten under her fingers and hears their breaths mingling, forehead to forehead, as she slowly tugs the front of his t-shirt out of the waistband of his jeans. She skims along the warm skin of his belly, down over his hip and down into his front pocket. He is tensed, fighting for control, as she nibbles under his jawline and feels with her fingertips for his keys.

She can't resist: she runs the fingers of her other hand along the line of his belt and works a finger under the buckle.

"Jesus, Eddie," he mutters, against her mouth. "I'm going out of my fucking mind."

She fishes out his keys in a hurry and somehow manages to unlock the door. In two steps, they're home safe. She pulls the door closed and turns to flip the deadbolt latch as he dumps the bags against the wall, and the heavenly long, slow dance they've been doing all day is over.

"Oh – " she hears herself breathe, at the look in his eyes. He meets her halfway, a tangle of hands and mouths that can't wait another second.

 _God, yes_. This is just how they've always been. Demanding and yielding to the other, reading and responding. Her mouth opens to his tongue, and everything goes deep and greedy. Her arms are full of solid, taut-muscled Jamie Reagan, and he's finding sensitive places in her mouth she didn't know about. He's holding her so tight, and she presses herself even closer up against him with a harsh little moan like she did this afternoon back at the house, only they're not teasing now.

He ducks to find the place under her ear he mapped out earlier, nipping and tasting, and her head rolls back a little with a gasp as her fingers clutch whatever she can reach. He's got that spot down, all right. While he's busy there she tugs again at his t-shirt, pulling it out all the way so she can slide her hands up the muscles of his bare back, where she's been aching to dig her fingers for years, if she's honest. She's dreamed of it from time to time, waking conflicted as hell and pulsing with want. Here and now, there is no conflict. Only want.

And his weapon. Oops.

"Jamie."

"Mm."

" 's get the guns and stuff put away and go to bed."

"Yeah. Wait – " he holds out a hand as she pulls back. "Gimme a sec. I'll get the guns. Can you deal with the food? Trust me."

She nods, curious, and bends down to retrieve her Sig for him to lock up with his. She hadn't thought he might have any surprises waiting for her, but then this whole weekend is about learning new things. Well, then…

He kisses her again briefly, grins, and lopes off to his bedroom as she collects the bags. She stashes everything perishable in the bottom of the fridge at lightning speed, lines up the rest on the counter and then heads to the bathroom, where she sheds most of her clothing with a sense of good riddance.

"You decent?" she calls, teasing him with his own words of a few hours ago. He huffs a laugh.

"Define 'decent'," he replies.

"I'm taking that as a yes," she says, and steps into the doorway.

* * *

With Eddie out of sight and the guns locked up in the safe bolted to the floor of his closet, he quickly lights the candles he'd set out earlier. He was right: they make the place look really nice. He turns down the sheets and gets rid of his shoes and socks and shirt as fast as he can. He figures since Eddie seemed to enjoy playing with his belt, she might as well finish the job. He briefly considers music, but discards the idea. He sets out the bottle of wine and the glasses on the dresser in case they want it later, and makes sure everything else is easy to reach. Chocolate, opened for easy access. Cookies. Condoms. Bottles of water. He knows his Eddie. Which is what makes tonight so different, and so much better than any other first night he's spent with anyone. His only concern is to make tonight as good for her as he can.

He's just thinking of opening the wine to breathe when he hears her call, "You decent?"

Not for long, he hopes. "Define 'decent'."

"I'm taking that as a yes," he hears from behind him, and turns. And feels his jaw drop open.

Eddie's standing in his doorway wearing his shirt, held closed only by a couple of strategic buttons, and not much else. And while he's blatantly staring at Eddie's legs, she's staring around the room, a little fuzzily without her glasses, her blue eyes downright sparkly.

"You – " she steps over to him, and puts her hands on his chest. _For me?_

He nods, and gathers her up into his arms. "Yup. You want wine?"

"I'm good for now," she says slowly, still entranced, "Seriously, Jamie, this is really sweet."

"And spicy."

"Hm?"

"I got that chocolate with the chili you like." He dances her a little, side to side in his arms, and she laughs.

"You didn't!"

"You want some?"

"Later." She tells him, and pulls him down to kiss her. He catches the heat of her hunger and the urgency rises up again, hard and fast.

His hands slide over her hips, down to her shapely ass. She really likes it when he grabs her there and lifts her up a little, so she can feel him hard against her. He was right about her playing with undoing his belt. She trails a finger or two over the button of his jeans, and then lower and along his length, and he exhales in a rush at the sensation. She chuckles low down and slides the tab end of his belt free, and then works the buckle open, her breath hot against his chest. He feels her clever fingers work at the button and zipper, slowly. She looks up and watches his eyes as her hand slips inside to find him, stroking, exploring, so she gets to see his mind slip its moorings with the feel of it.

It's so intense he thinks he might have to stop her soon, but, done with teasing, she slides his jeans and boxers down and off, tossing them on top of the hamper. The next thing he knows is her hands sliding over the skin of his hips, the arrow of hair leading down from the base of his belly, and gliding soft and easy up his penis.

"God, Eddie," he breathes. It's like the way he'd suddenly find himself naked in his dreams of her, effortless and unbelievably erotic. He takes her mouth, takes her breath away with his kisses. He has to touch her. He runs his fingers down her silky smooth skin to undo the last few buttons of his shirt, and slides it over her shoulders. Eddie is standing in front of him in only a scrap of lace, and holy God, she's breathtaking.

He was right about the pretty blue panties. They look amazing on her, mostly because she's the one in them. She's little and slim and compact and sturdy all at once, and he's entranced by the play of the golden candlelight over her muscles and curves and the moving rich waves of her hair.

"You are absolutely fucking gorgeous," he tells her, sincerely. She smiles and slides the pads of her fingers over his chest and tickles a nipple, which she's found are pretty damn sensitive, to his delight. A shudder travels down his spine and his cock pulses in response.

"You're not bad-looking yourself," she murmurs, "And I love that you do that when I touch you."

He urges her to the end of the bed. She sits, and then stretches luxuriously on her back in the warmth of the candles and the appreciation in his eyes, her pale limbs and hair against the navy blue of the quilt. He follows, leaning over her, and hums in approval as her legs come up to encircle his waist. _Definitely something to come back to. But for now…_ he moves with the pressure of her heels in his back and comes closer, kissing her smiling mouth. She burrows her fingers through his short hair and squeezes, and okay, he gets it. He smiles too and touches his nose to hers, and moves lower.

He kisses down her throat, her clavicles, over the tops of her breasts, and lower to that sensitive place down between where she'd been craving his touch. Her fingers tighten in his hair and her breath comes fast, and he breathes more kisses against the smooth skin there, feeling her rising up under him. He moves with her, his hand resting on her hip and his mouth seeking out her peaked little nipples, tasting and sucking till her hands drop and grab at the quilt beneath her. _Jesus, Eddie_. She's impossibly hot to watch.

He strokes a warm hand over her taut belly and ducks to trail kisses over one hip, just above the band of her panties. Her scent is heavy there, and as his mouth follows the line of lace from hip to hip, he finds his own breath turning to hungry pants. He had some idea of going slowly, but no. Her hips are rising and her legs slip from around his back, and she's on the verge of peeling them off herself when he gets there first and slides them down. He teases with a line of wet kisses down her thigh and to the inside of her knee, dropping the blue lace to the pile on the floor. She whimpers impatiently and reaches down for him, and he doesn't make her wait. He was right; she's dark here, neatly trimmed curls framing her pale glistening lips, and he has a moment to admire the contrast before he spreads her gently with his thumbs and takes a first tingling taste of her.

She bucks hard, with a " _Fuck_ , Jamie – ", and one knee ends up over his shoulder as he groans and licks a deeper path, the heady scent and taste of her dizzying. He finds the little pearl of her clit with the flat of his tongue and she bites her lip and jerks. Too intense. All right. He licks up underneath, barely touching the tip, and then over the little hood, and she rolls her hips in a sinuous curve and growls, and he nearly loses control right there. He pulls away reluctantly and lets hands do what lips have done, sliding two fingers either side of her clit and stroking there, letting her find her own rhythm and pressure.

His fingers work her delicately till she's cursing in a steady stream, her hips and spine moving restlessly, but he moves with her body. He drops his hot mouth onto her nipple and his tongue teases, curling around the tip before he wolfs at her breast, sucking and rolling, but it's the tug of his teeth that pulls a raw cry from her. He revels in the sound of it. He's imagined hearing that from Eddie for fucking _years_.

Two fingers slide up inside her, and she's so wet and warm and snug, and then he lands on that sweet spot. He can feel the electricity under his flickering fingertips, sparking waves of sensation that turn her gasps to breathless cries, and her hips lift right off the sheets to chase it. He feels it move through her, as if he's there inside her skin with her, and hears a moan escape his own throat, against her breast. He gulps in a breath and brushes his thumb along the side of her clit, and her breathing stutters to a stop. She flails and grabs his arm, gripping tight in warning, and he looks up. Her eyes are shut tight, and she takes in a slow, deep breath.

 _Oh_. He nods against her skin, and eases his fingers slowly out of her. Her eyes open and he smiles dreamily, bringing his fingers to his mouth, licking the slickness between them and then sucking them slowly. Her eyes widen and darken even more at the sight.

"Fuck, Jamie, that looks good," she pants. She scoots herself properly up onto the bed, and he follows her on hands and knees, trapping her under him.

"Oh, you are." He leans down and kisses her, first to tease and distract her from the encroaching orgasm she's trying to put off, and then deeper, as she grabs him by the hair and tongues his mouth, both of them moaning with it. She pushes at his shoulder, and he rolls with her, lifting her onto him. Her knees land either side of his hips, and he slides his hands over her thighs as she settles herself. He swallows at the sight of his erection against the dark, wet curls framing her pussy, thinking he may be in more trouble than he bargained for, if he intends to keep himself from coming first. Then she smiles and rises up, and he knows it for sure. Because –

 _Jesus Christ._

Eddie leans forward with her hands on his chest, and slowly, slowly, drags her pussy over him, from his balls right up his cock, and she's hot and so wet that it's just easy and slick and _oh God that's Eddie doing this_ , and if he pulses hard like that again he's just going to slip inside and _don't think about that_. But that's not her goal, not yet. She gets him good and wet, sitting up and smiling at him. And then she reaches down and cradles his tightening balls in one hand, and wraps her other hand around his aching shaft, and a groan rumbles from deep down in his chest as she pulls him slowly from base to tip and back down.

He tries to lie still and let her explore, he tries to breathe, but she's in no mood for that. Her fingers slide under his balls and stroke here and there, and her own hips are moving in rhythm with his, with her hand on his cock, and that's her thumb getting closer and closer and _oh fuck, breathe, just breathe_ , she's circling the tip of his cock, pearly with pre-come, and dipping down to the edge of his frenulum. His eyes slam shut and his hips jerk, and it's every time they've teased each other to sweet madness, all at once, all the giving and taking and _oh, God, it's really her._

"Eddie, I can't – "

She hums in understanding and her hands slow, and retreat. She tips forward onto the heels of her hands, up over his shoulders, and leans down to kiss him.

"Hey," she murmurs, "Like this okay? At first?"

He smiles against her lips. "Just drive. Condoms in the basket."

"You did think of everything."

She kisses him again and reaches over to the basket on the nightstand, and finds that there are, indeed, a small pile of the easy-open condom packs under the chocolate bars. She snaps off a piece of the spicy chocolate and gives him a piece as well, while she's attending to the condom, which is certainly a first for him in terms of dual sensations. The chocolate is hotter than he expected. But it distracts him from the feel of her deft hands on him for a brief moment.

She settles back and meets his gaze, rising up on her knees. He sweeps her hair from her forehead, cradling her face as she reaches down to hold him steady, and sinks slowly, slowly down, drawing him inside a little deeper with every breath, at her own speed. He's glad she chose this way; she's right, it's been a long time and she's tight inside and he's not a small man. And then quite suddenly they're there. They both go still instinctively, and watching one another, they both feel it.

"Jamie," she breathes, and he knows that if was able to speak, his voice would have that wondering note in it as well.

Because they're _fucking perfect_ together. And right now it's warm and soft and quiet and easy, and that's good, because with the way she's rising up and sliding down onto him like a little clenching fist, he wouldn't last long if they went much faster. The electric sparks are back, charges flaring along every nerve with every touch. She braces her hands on his chest and he rubs the stretched muscles of her hips as they move, and when he feels her movements loosen up and the hunger taking her over again, he meets her downstroke with a small thrust, and then a deeper one, and another, and another. Her breath comes short and she renews her grip on his shoulders, but this time it's to ask him to roll them over again. He disengages them carefully and does so.

His arms land on either side of her, and she reaches up to him. He looks down at the sweet sight of her, nude and flushed in the candlelight, panting for him. He sits back on spread knees and draws her legs up over his thighs for better control. She likes that, likes that she can see them joining together. He strokes her thighs and hips, and his fingers slip down to meet hers to guide him back inside her in one smooth, hard stroke. And this time the feel of her gripping around his cock goes right up his spine to his head and leaves him dizzy, and his hips buck into hers, over and again, and she drags her knee up higher against his side and he finds a deeper angle that sends them both into a different space entirely.

She tugs on his arms, pulling him down closer to her. And he feels that sense of slipping inside her skin again, feeling them moving together, hunger and sheer need of each other crashing through them both.

They're beyond controlling their own bodies now. He's anchored by his hand on her bent thigh, his forehead in the curve of her neck, his arm braced on the mattress to take the weight of the heavy thrusts that tear through them both. He hears the full-throated pleasure in her cries that he's dreamed of for years. He couldn't be quiet if he tried, not when he feels her body reaching for it, hears her rising sounds as he grinds down against her a little harder with every thrust, angles up a little sharper, giving her whatever she needs to take from him, and then he hears her final cut-off gasp and feels the strong clench and flutter from deep inside her, her blunt fingernails in his back, and then the groaning endless spasms of whiteout pleasure that detonate from the base of his spine to his balls and down his length, taking his breath and leaving him gasping against her breast, held fast in her arms.

* * *

The second time, he meets her in the kitchen grabbing a quick bite, after he exits the bathroom.

They do this thing with their eyes locking with a knowing, heated glance. She feels her nipples rivet up, and it's not just the overnight chill in the room. Her breath escapes her, and she tips her head back, waiting for his kiss to land on her mouth, and brushes her fingers down his belly, and keeps going, and just like that, he starts to twitch and rise under her touch. They've unleashed something running wild and needy, and it's finally free.

The couch has its merits, she thinks, a few minutes later, as one of Jamie's hands slides up her twisting spine and into her hair. The other strong arm locks tight around her hips to drag her back down onto his hard length, and with his urgent groans ringing in her ear, she can't think of much after that.

She's cleaning up in the bathroom before tucking back into bed when she remembers the condoms that weren't out in the living room. For the first time in her adult life, the thought merely raises a shrug. She's clean, he's clean, she's on the most effective IUD she knows of. This isn't any sort of fling. This the long haul, and whatever happens, they'll find their way through it together.

* * *

It's the sensation of being overly warm and a little sticky that eventually hauls her up from a deep, exhausted slumber. She doesn't open her eyes right away, though she registers the sun is high and streaming through the south-exposure window, even with the curtains drawn. She's achy, but relaxed and languid. Probably dehydrated, too: she should need to pee and she doesn't. Her brain wakes up and connects the languid with the warm and the sticky, and her heart thumps in her ribcage. She rolls over slowly, pushing her hair out of her eyes and squinting in the bright light.

Now there's a sight to behold. Jamie Reagan, sprawled on his back with the quilt barely covering his hips, tousle-headed, heavy-limbed and utterly fucked out. One arm is flung carelessly over his head. His mouth has fallen slightly open, and she watches the sunlight catch his long lashes and the fine morning stubble on his jaw. Somehow he looks too damn sweet to be burdened with the cares of the world, and thoroughly debauched all at once.

Eddie curls up on her side and tucks a hand under her cheek, watching him. _Beautiful man, this_ _Reagan character_ , she thinks. She wants to reach out and trace the shape of his shoulder, his bicep, to revisit the feel of them under her hand again, but she doesn't want to wake him. She smiles to herself. Whether he promises her pancakes and kisses, wakes up grumpy before his coffee or wants to go for his usual run, he's still her Jamie.

For once they are in no rush to be anywhere or do anything, and she's pretty sure he needs his rest. She's got small muscle groups in her back and belly she'd forgotten about, and she's decidedly sore below decks. It's been a long while since she'd slept with anyone, and they hadn't spared much of a thought for gentle, especially not the second round. Four years of verbal foreplay and total trust had that effect. Three times over four hours, if you count that last one that she thinks just ended in easy, slow spooned-up rocking and sleep. She's not sure. Memories sort of melt together after four in the morning.

She eases herself out from under the quilt, scoops up his shirt from the top of the hamper, and pads first to the bathroom for the most basic of tidy-ups, and then to the kitchen for a long, cold drink of water. She stands there a moment, taking in the fact that she's wandering around Jamie's kitchen mostly naked.

Something massive she's been fighting for years isn't a fight anymore. That's the only part of this thing that's weirding her out, because frankly, in this post-coital afterglow, she could stare down her bosses, the entire one-two house and all of the assembled Reagans, and tell them succinctly that she and Jamie are fine, thank you, and they can either be supportive or get out of their way.

Of course, that has yet to happen.

She fills a glass for Jamie and brings it back to the bedroom.

Tiptoeing around to his night-table, she sets it down. He twitches and takes in a fast breath, blinking awake suddenly. He peers up at her and she catches the littlest smirk before he drapes his arm over his eyes dramatically to block out the light.

"Good God, Eddie," he mumbles, "What'd you do to me?"

She grins and sits on the edge of the bed. Yup. Definitely Jamie. "What, you need your memory refreshing?"

The arm drops, and he eyes her up and down. "Yes. Please. Later."

"Later," she agrees. She hands him the glass of water, and he props himself up on one elbow to take it. He raises it in a toast to her, before draining it and handing it back.

"I'm never getting that shirt back, am I."

She glances down. "I mean, I suppose I can keep it here, so you don't miss it too much."

He scoots over in the bed and reaches out an arm, inviting her to join him under the covers again. He gathers her into his side with a satisfied rumbly sigh. "Keep it here. It's yours. This is nice…"

"And we smell like a bordello on pay night." Not that she's complaining, entirely. There's something to be said for that animal combination of sex and sleepiness, and rode-hard Jamie smells like she's staked a claim on him, but there are limits. "Shower soon?"

"Mm hmm. You feel like going out for breakfast or staying in?"

God, she's missed the sound and feel of talking quietly in bed. She wonders if she's been self-sabotaging all her potential relationships over the past few years, setting her sights on men who she knew would be too cagey to deal with the mornings-after, or making sure she had the plausible escape of a roll call to attend. An offer to dash out and get breakfast sandwiches does not compare with the hushed intimacy of simple pillow talk. She settles her forehead into his neck, reveling in the feel of him unhurriedly caressing her bare hip under his shirt. "Doesn't matter. Just feed me."

"I got breakfast stuff here. Plenty of coffee. Dinner leftovers – what time is it, anyway?"

"Nearly eleven. I know, right? No wonder I'm starving."

Cradling her against his chest, he shifts and sits them both up against the headboard. His stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly. She pats his belly with a look of comical sympathy, and he intercepts her hand before things have a chance to get out of hand. Or into hand, as the case may be. Sounds like she's not the only one a little sore this morning, but at least they'll get to hold each other responsible for it forevermore.

"Only one catch," he mutters.

"Mm?"

"Getting up."

She muffles a snicker in his shoulder. "That was quite a workout last night."

"Good cardio."

"Definitely good for the heart," she says, and then shakes her head and groans, hearing her words. "Jeez. What'd you do to _me_ , Reagan?"

Jamie just gazes down at her with the grin of the recently-laid, and something else that sends the stomach-butterflies out in a flock.

 _He loves her._ He's loved her for a long time. She loves him right back, and they're both finally ready for each other, and nothing and nobody is going to get in the way of that. They're not hiding under the covers from reality. This _is_ reality. And it's okay. They can do this. And everyone knows and nobody minds. In fact, quite a few people are pretty happy for them.

"So what's the plan?" he asks. She levers herself upright and crosses her legs, facing him.

"Scrub down, breakfast in bed, more sleep, more sex," she says.

"I second that." He reaches out and lifts her hand, linking their fingers. His eyes have gone quiet and calm, silvery-green in the morning light. "Seriously, Eddie? Last night was…"

"It really was," she says softly. She leans over to plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Hey. I know it's your day off, but you mind shaving?"

"Usually do." He raises an interrogative eyebrow.

"Oh, good," she smiles, and doodles a finger over his jawline. "I got something needs kissing better."

* * *

Thursday is quiet and downright cozy. They wore each other out pretty good, and Eddie has a dawn rollout on Friday morning, so it's a day of lazing and leftovers. And tortuously slow explorations that lose nothing in their gentleness. Jamie finds that there are some ways of melting chocolate (not the spicy one, at least not yet) that transcend human language. Eddie learns that Jamie really means it when he says he's willing to experiment, and that talking about The List, for now, is a really fun low-energy alternative to playing. And the vanilla massage lotion feels awfully good on forgotten muscles and sensitive, chafed-up areas.

It's getting on for ten o'clock, which is bedtime for a morning shifter. He isn't scheduled until noon. He plans to nap with Eddie a little, after a shower, and then try to stay up late. It's something they'll have to get used to.

For now, he moves through his room tidying up, making sure she's got a key to his gun safe for the morning, and that both of their clean uniform gear for the week ahead is duffel-bagged and ready for transport to their lockers. This part feels entirely natural; they've been each other's second pair of eyes on the job for years.

He lights the candles again, with a goofy smile on his face. Candlelight and vanilla have become forever associated with Eddie, with this break they've had to come together, and, well, come together. He gets into bed and picks up the latest Blue Line journal on his nightstand, waiting for her.

She appears in a moment, clean and sleepy and nude, and looking like she feels at home. The thought gives him a warm glow. He watches the pale lines and dips of her moving through the dim candlelight, and feels for a moment as though he's watching them both from a distance. For an overly rational man raised by NYPD cops, he thinks, he let himself be ruled by fear for long enough.

The two of them have finally arrived at a ground-state, after expending so much energy for so long, resisting the natural physical force that pulled them together. He wonders what they'll use all that energy for, now that they're together, and the thought excites him in a way that reminds him of arriving at Harvard on move-in day.

"What is it?" she asks, curious.

"All good. Get in, it's warm." He flips the magazine back onto the nightstand and holds out a hand.

She slides under the covers and into his arms as they lie down and find their best fit, stretching herself along his body and tucking her head into his shoulder. Still through that detached filter, he sees them together, his long, easy frame and her smaller one that rarely stops moving. He feels her breathing begin to slow down and mirror his. He covers her hand with his where it rests on his chest. He absolutely loves it when she curls up into his side and does that.

He brings his focus back hastily and quickens his hearing as she murmurs in his ear.

"I was thinking," she says, "I want to start a new list."

"Mm?"

"Things I really want to talk about, but it's gotta be the right time. The scary stuff."

"Scary stuff?" he feels a smirk tugging at his the corners of his mouth. "You're not scared of anything. And I'm pretty sure you're not scared of me."

She hides her face in his chest for a moment. "Okay. Really big stuff. Things we're going to have to decide together, and things we both need to know about before we do."

"Mm," he says again. He strokes his fingers over the small hand under his, hidden under the quilt. "I get you. What d'you want to know about? We don't have to get into anything right now."

"The future. Our future."

"That's a big one," he agrees.

"What we want it to look like."

"Good place to start. With us, with work. Our families, our…family."

"Yeah…"

"What else?" he asks, into the brief silence that falls between them.

"Your mom. Your brother Joe," she says softly.

"They would have loved you. I've got more good Joe stories for you. I'll tell you all about Mom."

She kisses his chest and props her chin on her fist to see his eyes better. "What about you?"

"Me?" he thinks. "I _was_ wondering something, yeah. I know the thing with your dad really did a number on you."

"Yeah, it did."

"But you keep trusting people. You found a way to keep seeing the good in people. In men, too, I mean."

"And you want to know how?"

"Seems like it's a really big part of your story. I'd like to hear more about it someday."

"You will," she promises. "And I'll try to explain the whole thing with my mother and my technical stepdad Bradley, because when she finds out we're finally together, she's gonna start calling me twice a day till she's checked you out herself."

He chuckles at that. "Is Mira as tough as you?"

"She's Serbo-Croatian and escaped from behind the Iron Curtain in 1982. My dad barely escaped from _her_ after his little empire collapsed. I'm serious. There's police reports."

She's tensed up again, the memories lingering in her very nerves. He pulls her closer, half on top of him, and cradles her there, stroking her back.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"No, no, don't be. Just listen a sec, okay?"

She nods against his chest.

"I'm not going anywhere. Your family history isn't going to push me away. I'm not gonna let mine push you away. We're not a couple of kids seeing where this goes and hoping for the best. This is the real deal. I think we both know that, or we wouldn't be here. That's where we get to start from. The rest is just filling in the details."

She's quiet, but he feels the tears she's gulping down. He lets her hide behind her hair till she gathers herself.

"In a weird way, I'm glad we waited so long," she says at length. "I don't think we'd have handled anything casual very well. We really needed all that time together, in the same space."

"I guess we did have some partner benefits," he agrees. "What other workplace relationship gives you your own private, portable cubicle to ride around in all shift with nobody to eavesdrop?"

"Got that right."

"I got one more for the list," he says. "This new list, not the other list. Though maybe both, actually, now that I – "

"Okay, okay. I don't know whether to get thoughtful or turned on, here."

She raises up on one elbow and looks down at him. In this moment, she's not the cute, feisty partner he's kept at a safe distance all these years, but an impossibly lovely, mature woman, the lines of her bare shoulder, her breast, her cheekbone catching the glow from the candles, and the fall of her hair framing her eyes as she watches him.

This isn't his old pal Eddie. This is Edit, the latest in her lineage of strong, difficult, beautiful women who were born to fight against the wrongs of the world. He gets why she keeps that hidden. He's never going to get over being stunned that she chose him to share it with. Which may be why he has to be sure. He brushes his fingers through her hair and slides them behind her ear, rubbing his thumb over her cheek.

"I want to ask you something really important."

Her eyes widen. "Jamie…" she breathes, warningly.

His thumb strokes her lips briefly. "Hang on. I don't want to take anything for granted, least of all you. And being with you, this past couple of weeks, it's been…really easy to get carried away. So I want to ask you properly. Edit, will you be my lover?"

It's as though he can trace the path of his words cascading through her entire body, from her eyes, flown wide and staring into his, to her indrawn, stopped breath and the utter frozen stillness in every limb. Only her heart is pounding, so hard he can feel her pulse under her jaw.

Then with a low sob, she's kissing him, her body sliding over his in an effort to touch every part of him she can, and he feels a warm wetness on his face that isn't only from her.

It's a galvanic full-body, mutual _yes_.


End file.
